Page 1 of Hunted By the Mountain Man
one
Anna
Eightmonthsinthissafe house, and tonight something feels wrong.
I settle into my evening routine with a cup of tea, reviewing the forensic accounting case files Agent Morton brought me last week. Keeping my skills sharp, he'd said. For when the trial finally happens and I can reclaim my life. The work helps distract from the isolation—forty kilometers from Darkmore, buried so deep in the Alberta wilderness that Costa's people would never think to look here.
The cabin feels secure, familiar. Morton chose well when he relocated me from the facility in Ontario. The mountain air agrees with me, and I've actually started to feel safe for the first time in two years.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Morton's name on the secure line.
Trial postponed again. Judge received credible threat. New date TBD.
I sigh, setting down my mug. Another delay, but I've learned to adapt. At least here I have space to think, to breathe. Not like the cramped apartments in Toronto or the sterile facility in Ottawa.
Outside, snow begins falling gently against the windows. Finally, the first real storm of the season. I should probably check that I have enough firewood stacked inside, though Morton's people keep the cabin well-supplied.
I'm reaching for another case file when I hear it.
Car engines. Multiple vehicles, moving fast up the access road that's supposed to be known only to federal agents.
My blood turns to ice. No one comes here. Morton would call first. Supply runs are scheduled weeks in advance. And the road is officially closed to civilian traffic.
Through the front window, I watch dark SUVs emerge from the tree line. Men pour out, too many men, moving with military precision as they surround the cabin. They wear tactical gear, communicate through hand signals, spread out like professionals who've done this before.
This isn't a routine check-in.
Costa found me.
Without warning, without any of the security protocols Morton promised would protect me, they're here. And in about sixty seconds, they're going to kick down that door.
I grab the emergency bag hidden under the couch—cash, fake passport, basic supplies. My laptop goes in last. The panic button would alert Calgary, but help is hours away and these men won't wait.
The back door opens silently. Morton insisted on well-oiled hinges for exactly this reason. Alberta's mountain air hits me like a slap, but adrenaline keeps me moving.
Behind me, the front door explodes inward. Voices bark orders in accented English—not military, not federal agents. Hired contractors. Men who get paid to make problems disappear.
I run into the forest.
The snow is coming down harder now, huge flakes that will cover my tracks but also blind me in the darkness. I have no flashlight, no winter gear, no idea where I'm going except away from the men with guns.
I'm a forensic accountant from Toronto. I work with spreadsheets and financial records, not survival situations. But I've had two years to think about this moment, to plan for the day Costa's reach finally found me.
Behind me, the hunters fan out through the trees. They're calling to each other in what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian—Costa's outsourced specialists. Professional, but not infallible.
The ground drops away suddenly into a steep ravine. In daylight, it might be manageable. In darkness and snow, it's treacherous.
But less dangerous than staying within their reach.
I slide down the embankment, using roots and branches to control my descent. Halfway down, the emergency bag catches on something and tears open, scattering supplies into the snow. My laptop tumbles away into the darkness, taking with it the last proof of Costa's crimes.
I hit the bottom hard, slamming into a fallen tree trunk. Pain explodes through my shoulder, but the voices above are already fading. They're not following—not yet.
I salvage what I can: some cash, an energy bar, a small first aid kit. Not much, but it's what I have.
The ravine stretches into blackness. I pick a direction and start walking, each step taking me deeper into wilderness I don't understand. My business clothes are already soaked through, and the cold is seeping into my bones.
But I keep moving. Because eight months of feeling safe just ended, and my only choice now is to find help before Costa's men find me.
